


FIC: Peaches (Sam/Dean, PG-13)

by electricalgwen



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Case Fic, M/M, Reverse Big Bang Challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-13
Updated: 2015-02-13
Packaged: 2018-03-12 03:56:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3342773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/electricalgwen/pseuds/electricalgwen





	FIC: Peaches (Sam/Dean, PG-13)

Written for [](http://spn-reversebang.livejournal.com/profile)[**spn_reversebang**](http://spn-reversebang.livejournal.com/). Thanks to [](http://winchestergirl.livejournal.com/profile)[**winchestergirl**](http://winchestergirl.livejournal.com/) for a delightful, adorable prompt with wide open possibilities! She gave me room to play, and was amazingly patient with my last-minute tendencies.

Case fic, ~8K, rated PG-13. I am once again indebted to [](http://deirdre-c.livejournal.com/profile)[**deirdre_c**](http://deirdre-c.livejournal.com/) for a brilliant beta job. All mistakes are of course mine (and please feel free to point them out.) Comments = oxygen to the flame.

**Peaches**

Sally puts down her spoon and licks a smear of peach jam off the back of her hand. She sighs contentedly, eyeing the jars lined up on the counter. Rows of warm, glowing golden treasures.

She used to make jam with her grandmother, the years they went to visit her in late summer and fall. Peach, raspberry, plum. Mom would stop into the kitchen sometimes, give a few stirs of the spoon so as to have had a hand in it – three generations of Webster women – but then she'd wander off to weed the garden or sand a chair or read a book under a tree in the drowsing afternoon. The kitchen was the domain of Sally and her grandmother.

In this house, the house Sally and her mother shared all the rest of the year, nobody ever made jam. This is the first summer the peach tree in the back yard flowered.

This is the first summer since Sally's mom died. She'll never know that the tree finally produced its fruit.

 

 

Dean's phone rings while they're at breakfast.

It keeps on ringing.

“Ignore it,” Dean says through a mouthful of pancake.

“Dude,” Sam says. “If you're not going to answer it, at least turn the ringer off.”

“What he said,” the waitress says, appearing at Dean's elbow with a fresh pot of coffee. “She can't take no for an answer, huh?”

Dean gives her a lazy smile. “Something like that.”

“Seriously,” Sam grumps.

“What, you jealous, Sammy?” Dean winks at the waitress, and Sam rips the lid off the stupid little plastic thing of jam with far too much force.

“It's annoying,” he says through gritted teeth.

“Geez, calm down. Fine.”

Dean fishes the phone out of his pocket just as it stops ringing, and peers at the screen.

He picks up his newly refilled coffee and takes a gulp, an appreciative smile sliding onto his face as he watches the waitress bend over to refill another customer's mug. Sam concentrates on spreading a perfectly even layer of jam that stops precisely the same distance from each edge of the toast slice.

“It was Bobby. Just figure I'd like to finish my breakfast first.”

“What if it's urgent?” Sam shoves half the toast in his mouth.

The phone beeps.

“See? He left a message. So it can wait.” Dean spears a piece of bacon. “Simple pleasures, Sam. Life is short. I'm going to enjoy this bacon while I can.”

When Sam goes up to the till to pay, there's a faint edge of disappointment to their waitress's smile. He leaves a decent tip to ease her pain.

He steps outside just as Dean's lowering the phone from his ear.

“Bobby's got a ghost for us. Figure we might as well just drive over and get the details. It's only a couple hours, and we need to drop off that curse jar anyway.

It's a gray, unexciting day. The first drops of rain start as they reach the outskirts of town. Not a refreshing rain, or a driving, energizing storm; just dreary and depressing. Sam slouches down in his seat and watches the rain roll down his window; streaks merge, diverge, obscure the blandly repetitive view. The clouds are darker near the horizon. They're driving towards the storm.

They don't talk. They haven't, lately. Nothing beyond the superficial, or interactions necessary for the job at hand. Not since Sam made the biggest mistake of his life.

_“Dean, you gotta know.” Words slurred through numb lips. “I woulda done anything, man. Anything. Shouldn'a gone with her but I didn't know what else – I tried, Dean.”_

_“S'ok, Sam. I know.”_

_“No.” Head rolling back. Soul escaping through his lips, black as any demon. “No, Dean, you don't. Never told you. Couldn't. Shouldn't be telling you now.”_

_Slight shifting of the sofa. Dean turning towards him. “Tell me what?”_

_“Love you.” Hands clenching, sense of doom rising but too late to stop. “Don't know how to live without you. Never been anyone else. Never will be.”_

_Indrawn breath. Nervous laugh. Clap on the shoulder. Withdrawal to a safe distance._

_“Wow, Sammy. You're pretty drunk, hey? Get some sleep.”_

Sam swallows against the bile that rises in his throat – echo of the following morning, when he'd puked his guts out more from the realization of what he'd done than from the hangover – and goes on doing what he's been doing ever since. Keeping quiet; keeping to his own space. Pretending he doesn't remember; pretending he doesn't notice Dean's fake heartiness and sideways looks. Ignoring the near-imperceptible but uncrossable distance building between them.

He's a hunter. He should have known: secrets can never stay buried forever, and you may not like what rises from the dirt.

 

 

“Got a call this morning,” Bobby says, once the curse jar's been stashed and they're settled around the kitchen table with sandwiches. “Her name's Sally, she lives over in Mitchell. Last time I saw her, she was no more'n three or four years old. Here with her mom.”

“Was her mom a hunter?” Sam asks.

“Nope. She was lookin' for something to settle a vengeful spirit. Friend of a friend put her in touch with me, must be twenty years or more.”  
Bobby scratches at the back of his neck. “I offered to head over her way and look after it, but she didn't take me up on it. Said she'd manage it herself, just needed the know-how. Came by, listened to what I had to say, took the stuff and left.”

“What did you give her?”

“Usual basics,” Bobby shrugs. “Salt, banishing ritual, couple of diagrams. General advice. She wouldn't get into the specifics, so it wasn't real tailored.” He sighs. “I got the feeling Louise didn't trust anyone farther than she could throw them. And the little one, she was a shadow. Hiding behind her mom, all big eyes and scared looks.”

He sighs. “I heard it worked out all right, but I never got any more details.”

“So why's Louise calling now?” Dean asks.

“Sally,” Bobby corrects. “I guess Louise died last winter.”

“How?”

“Cancer. Sally'd moved away a few years back, but she came home to look after her mom, and stayed on in the house afterwards. Sounds like things were fine until a few weeks ago, and then stuff started happening. The usual – noises, cold spots, doors banging, that sort of thing.”

“D'you suppose it's her mom?”

“Could be, sure,” Bobby says. “But it's been escalating. Sally sounded pretty scared. She and her mom got along fine, from what she says, and she looked after Louise right up till she died. Dunno why Louise would want to frighten her. Or hurt her.”

“Odds are, it was their house that was haunted back then,” Sam says. “Unless the spirit was after Louise specifically. Is it the same house?”

“Think so.”

“So maybe it's the same problem.”

Dean leans back in his chair, hooking a boot over the bottom rung. “Right. Louise found out she had a ghost problem, and didn't trust the experts with it. She learned enough to banish it for a while, but she didn't get the job done all the way and now that she's gone, the ghost's back.”

“Is it the same stuff that happened before?”

“Dunno,” Bobby says. “Sally says she doesn't remember anything weird happening when she was a kid.”

Dean frowns. “Then how'd she know to call you?”

“Found my name in her mom's stuff.” Bobby shrugs. “It was one of those calls where they're sort of hinting at things, and they think maybe they're crazy to be calling, but they're hoping like hell you know what they're talking about? You know.”

“Yeah.” They know.

“Yeah. So, I guess Louise had written some stuff in her journal, nothing real specific, but enough that Sally realized she'd dealt with something weird in the past. Sounds like a pretty basic haunting, and I knew you two chuckleheads were in the area. Figured it'd give you something to do.”  
He looks back and forth between them, a slight frown creasing his forehead. “Everything okay?”

“Fine,” Sam says, a shade too quickly.

“Peachy,” Dean says.

Bobby looks at them for several seconds before nodding. “All right then.” He doesn't look convinced. “You boys've been through a lot lately. You need a break, you know you're always welcome to stick around a while.”

“Thanks, Bobby,” Sam says, but he knows they can't. Keep moving, keep working, keep secrets. It's the Winchester way.

 

 

Sally opens the door the moment Sam's knuckles touch the wood. She's clearly been waiting.

“You're...?” she says, looking the question mark back and forth between them. She's clearly on edge, dark circles under her eyes and a tight line between her brows.

“Bobby sent us,” Sam says in his best reassuring voice. “I'm Sam. This is my brother Dean.”

She gives a small, tight smile, then steps back, holding the door open. She doesn't say come in.

They step into a small but bright hallway. Partway along it, there's a wide wooden staircase leading up to the second floor. To their left, there's a sitting room containing a lot of books and some overstuffed furniture that looks both ancient and comfortable. Glancing to the right, Sam sees a bright, open room strewn with fabric; a table in the corner holds a modern sewing machine.

“Don't bother about your shoes,” she says, and heads down the center hallway towards the large, farmhouse kitchen at the back.

The whole place feels warm and welcoming. It's not the vibe Sam had expected. The pale yellow curtains at the window above the sink, the pine board table, and the smells of coffee and fresh baking in the kitchen contribute to the sunny feeling.

She gestures towards the table, which is set with plates and mugs. “Have a seat. Thanks for coming.”

“No problem,” Dean says heartily, thumping down into a chair. “Any friend of Bobby's is a friend of ours. And, well, I guess you weren't exactly a friend, but...”

“I'm sorry about your mom,” Sam interjects, sitting down and trying to surreptitiously kick Dean on the ankle. “Bobby told us she died this past winter?”

“Yeah.” Sally takes a chair on the other side of the table, then promptly jumps to her feet again. “Sorry, I meant to ask, would you like some coffee?” She turns and takes a step toward the counter, changes direction and makes a abortive move towards the fridge, turns back to the table and reaches for a mug, then sits back down and bursts into tears.

Dean gives Sam a _what the hell did you say that for?_ glare. Sam returns a _whatever_ and looks around for a box of Kleenex, because Dean is going to be useless in this situation.

“I'm sorry,” he says again, pushing the Kleenex into Sally's – probably blurry – field of view. “I know this is really upsetting for you, but we're going to have to ask you some questions about that.”

Sally tells them about her mother's death. It was unexpectedly fast – she was diagnosed with a malignant brain tumor in the autumn, and was told she could expect a year, maybe a little more.

“She died in January,” Sally says, shredding a damp Kleenex into little bits. “It's a dark time of year and she’d been having a lot of problems. Her speech was badly affected early on, and then her right side started getting really weak. I had to help her with a lot of stuff, you know, like getting dressed – she couldn't do buttons – and she was so frustrated when people couldn't understand her right away, or at all, and...” She takes a deep, shuddering breath and sighs. “I really think she just gave up. She could have maybe lasted a bit longer but I could feel her thinking, what the hell for?”

She pulls a fresh Kleenex from the box and dabs at her eyes. “My mom was a tough cookie. She never took anything lying down. I don't remember my dad, but I'm given to understand he was an abusive bastard. Nobody told me that as a kid, of course, but you hear stuff, and people talked a little more as I got older. She protected me from him, I guess, and after he took off and left us, she went right on protecting me. I always knew Mom was in my court.”

She sighs. “She was totally supportive when I said I wanted to go to art college. She helped me out as much as she could – financially, I mean – and she always had faith in me.” Sally waves a hand toward the front room. “I took textile design. That's what all that mess out there is, I run a small business from home.”

She pushes her chair back. “Okay, let's try this again. Coffee?”

Her hand shakes only a little as she fills their mugs.

“Oh, and here you go.” The delicious smell turns out to be a napkin-covered basket of biscuits.

“I forgot the jam!” she exclaims. “Be right back,” and she's darted out of the room before Sam can protest they don't need jam. Although, a moment to talk alone with Dean is valuable.

“What do you think?” he says quietly.

“Still the overprotective mom?” Dean suggests. “Haunting the place to make sure nobody messes with Sally, or her career?”

“Maybe?” Sam frowns. “But wouldn't you think she'd be scaring others who come around? Not the daughter she's trying to protect.”

Dean shrugs. “She might have started out with hanging around to protect her daughter, but she didn't know about the whole going-crazy ghost business. So now she's just terrifying whoever's in the place.”

Sam nods. “Before we leave, I'll get the EMF meter out of the trunk, see if I can get a reading.” He breaks off as Sally reenters the room.

She puts the jar of peach jam on the table and pushes the basket of biscuits towards them. “Help yourselves. I just made this jam last week.”

“Thank you very much,” Sam says, reaching for a biscuit. Dean takes two.

“So,” he says. “What's up? What made you call Bobby?”

She bites her lip.

“Don't worry,” Dean says, “we'll believe it. Weird noises? Things moving around? Flickering lights? Creepy transparent people sitting on the stairs? You name it, we've seen it.”

He breaks open his biscuits and Sam pushes the butter and jam towards him.

Sally blinks. “Wow. I thought maybe I...” She takes a deep breath. “It's real, then.”

“Yes,” Sam says gently. “You aren't just imagining it.”

She nods, closing her eyes briefly.

“It started with noises. I thought at first they were the usual old-house noises – you know, creaks, pipes gurgling, maybe mice. They weren't the same as I remembered as a kid, but I thought, well, I've been away, and the house is older. A couple of times I found the kitchen tap running when I knew I hadn't turned it on. I got the plumber in to have a look at it, he replaced the O-ring but I'm pretty sure there wasn't really anything wrong with it.

Because then I began hearing things that I couldn't explain away as the house. Noises like static, and someone crying. Doors started banging when the wind wasn't blowing. One time I went out to the garden just for a minute, to get a few leaves of lettuce for supper, and the door not only shut but it locked behind me. It doesn't _do_ that. I didn't have my keys, of course, so I had to break a window to get back in.

I didn't know what to do. I tried a couple of things – stupid things, you'll laugh – I tried talking to my mom. In case it was her? But if it is her, I don't understand. Last week, things started getting even worse. Dangerous. I was coming down with a basket of laundry and I tripped over a pair of shoes at the top of the stairs that hadn't been there before. I nearly went all the way down, barely managed to grab the railing.”

She gestures at the stove, and the bare window above it. “I used to have curtains at that window too. Somehow one corner managed to unhook itself and fall on an element that shouldn't have been on. I came in just before the fire really got going. Five minutes later would have been too late.

But – a ghost? A spirit? It sounded crazy, even in my head. I tried talking to one of my friends, but she obviously thought I'm going through some sort of grief reaction and suggested a psychiatrist. Then last week, I found Bobby's name in a journal of my mom's. She didn't really come out and say what she'd gone to him for. Just kind of hinted, and not even much of that. It wouldn't have caught my eye if I'd read it before, but – with all this weird stuff going on, I was already thinking along those lines. Lines most people wouldn't believe, but it sounded like she – oh my god!”

She shrieks and claps a hand to her mouth, as Sam leaps to his feet, knocking over his chair.

“Dean!”

He seizes Dean's shoulder and rolls him over, from where he's collapsed face down in his plate. His eyes are wide and he's gasping for breath, face red. “Dean!”

He runs his hands over Dean's neck and chest, in case he can disrupt whatever's attacking him. Nothing changes. He jumps up and looks around frantically. This is a kitchen, there's got to be salt somewhere.

“I'll call 911?” Sally stammers, but then Dean convulses and his chest stops moving. Sam grabs Dean's wrist. Nothing. He shifts his grip, frantically trying to find a pulse that isn't there, and fuck it, there isn't time. And it's not like Sally isn't already learning there's more to this world than meets the eye.

“Cas!” Sam shouts, and judging from Sally's flinch, it probably doesn't matter if Castiel has his angel ears on or not, everything in heaven and earth can probably hear a Winchester terrified of losing his brother. Again. “Cas, Dean's _dying!_ Like, right now! I need your help!”

The rustle of wings is a stillness that dampens the last of his yell, and Cas is standing on Dean's other side. He blinks down at Dean, purses his lips, lays a hand on Dean's forehead, and closes his eyes.

The six seconds that takes feel like eternity. Sam hadn't been aware he wasn't breathing until Dean's chest heaves, his color abruptly returning to normal, and Sam's chest hurts as he sucks in a ragged breath of his own.

“I thought cyanide was usually employed for suicides,” Cas says, puzzlement in his voice and expression.

“Cyanide!”

Sam's jaw drops. He turns a horrified gaze on Sally.

Who, right, hasn't yet processed a strange man appearing out of thin air at her kitchen table. She's pale as a sheet, staring at Cas, mouth moving silently.

“This is Castiel,” Sam says. He's aware his tone is blunter than ideal for managing someone in shock, but he's not entirely sure she didn't just try to poison them both, and manners seem a little out of reach. “He's an angel. Why the hell was Dean dying of cyanide poisoning?”

Sally's mouth makes the shape of angel? but no sound emerges.

“Angel,” Sam confirms. “Which is why Dean isn't dead. At your table. From your food. I really need an explanation for this. Now.”

She shrinks into her chair, shoulders rising to her ears. Her voice finally returns, small and squeaky. “I have no idea! I ate a biscuit before you got here!”

Cas is meanwhile poking at the jam and the biscuits. “...Cas! Stop that!”

“I am immune,” Cas says absently, sticking a finger in the jam and licking it. “This is it.”

“What?!” Sally shakes her head frantically. “I just made that! Last week!” She looks down at herself, panicked. “And I licked the spoon when I was done!”

“You would be dead by now if you had ingested that amount of cyanide last week,” Cas says, in a fairly terrible attempt at reassurance.

Dean coughs. Sam thinks about getting him a glass of water, but decides against anything that comes from this house. They've got bottled water in the car but he's not leaving Dean for a moment. Not even with Cas.

“What the hell just happened?” His voice is a little hoarse, but his breathing is normal.

“You were poisoned. Cas says there's cyanide in the jam.” Sam's voice sounds even more wrecked than Dean's. He gulps, trying to get a hold of himself. He suddenly realizes he's holding Dean's hand again, feeling the steady soothing thump of a pulse under his fingers.

“You okay, Sammy?” Dean's gaze travels down to where their hands meet, and there's a quick flash of fear in his eyes.

Sam drops Dean's hand like his touch might be poison as well. “Yeah, I'm good. I didn't eat any.”

Dean gets an elbow on the table and pushes himself up from where he's sprawled awkwardly, half on and half off his chair. Sam instinctively moves to sling an arm round him and help him. Dean's warmth soaks in along his side; he allows himself the briefest moment to savor it, to feel Dean's chest expand against him as Dean breathes – breathes, thank god – before Dean settles into his chair and shoves him away.

“Don't fuss, Sam. I'm fine.” He wipes a finger over his cheek, smeared with butter and crumbs, and grimaces. He reaches across and swipes the Kleenex box from in front of Sally, and starts cleaning his face with one. “Why's Cas here?”

“I called him. He cured you.” Sam looks up at Castiel. “Thanks for coming.”

“Raising him was much harder than that,” Castiel says. “I would hate to see my efforts wasted.”

Sam stares. “Cas – was that a joke?”

“I've been practicing.”

“Seriously, though.” Sam shivers. “Thanks. He could have died.”

“You could have died,” Sally echoes. “This is all my fault.” She's starting to hyperventilate. “I shouldn't have called! Now it's mad.”

“It?”

“A ghost,” Sam says. “I think, anyway. Don't worry. We can take it from here.”

Cas nods. “That's good. I would not want to appear unsympathetic, but I am needed elsewhere. Take care.”

He vanishes. Sally lets out a strangled squeak. Sam realizes he should probably be paying more attention to reassuring her, but he's finding it hard to spare any attention from Dean.

Dean solves the problem by turning to Sally, passing the Kleenex box back to her. “Hey, there. It's okay. I'm fine. Take a deep breath. Don't pass out on us now.”

“I'm sorry!” She presses the palms of her hands against her eyes. “I'm so sorry! I had no idea it could do – something like that!”

“Are we sure it was the ghost – or whatever?” Dean's forehead furrows. “Don't peach pits contain cyanide? That could have gotten concentrated, maybe.”

“You know you take the pits out of the fruit first, right?” Sally says.

“Sure,” Dean says, “but what if a small piece made its way in, got boiled along with the jam?”

Sam frowns. “No way. You'd have to eat a few pounds of peach seeds before it even started affecting someone your size. And it looked like you got a pretty big dose. That amount couldn't have got into a spoonful of jam naturally.”

“It has to be the ghost,” Sally says. Her knee is jittering and her shoulders hunch. “I told your – friend. I ate some when I made it. It must have been fine. What else could affect it in a sealed jar?”

Dean and Sam exchange looks. Dean's says that it's up to Sam.

“Or else it isn't meant to affect you,” Sam says carefully. “Maybe it _is_ your mother doing these things.”

Sally shakes her head rapidly, folding her arms over her chest. “No. I can't believe that. Mom would never hurt anyone like that. And the bad things that happened to me – why would she do that?”

“Being a ghost is tough. Sometimes people stick around for good reasons, but if they don't move on when they should have – it can change them. They aren't themselves anymore.” Sam frowns, and turns to Dean. “But it does seem odd that there've been attacks on her.”

“Yeah, but we need to consider the possibility,” Dean says. “Where's your mother buried?”

“She was cremated, actually,” Sally says. “I have her ashes in the front room. I was planning a trip this fall, to scatter them. She always wanted to see the Grand Canyon but never got around to it.”

Sam exchanges another glance with Dean, only this time Sally notices. “What? Does that matter?”

“Yeah,” Dean admits. “Unless there's some other physical relic – ”

“Evidence,” Sam interrupts.

“– physical evidence of a person, there's nothing to keep their spirit.”

“So it isn't my mom!” Sally looks vindicated. “I told you it wouldn't be.”

“You didn't keep anything? Some of her hair?”

Sally gives a rueful laugh. “She didn't have much, after the radiation. No. Photos and memories. And the ashes. That's all.”

“Salt and iron can hold off ghosts,” Sam says. “But to get rid of one for good, you have to burn its bones.”

Sally's eyes widen and she nods with understanding. “Which is why you asked about cremation.”

Dean nods. “But if it’s someone else’s ghost, I'm betting your mom wasn’t able to burn it. Maybe she worked a banishing ritual, or painted some protection wards. She thought she got rid of it, but now that she's dead, it's back.”

Sally coughs. “Um. What do you mean, protection wards?”

She tells them that she had the house freshly painted.

“It was during her last stay in the hospital.” Sally bites her lip. “Things had gotten kind of worn and drab over the years – I didn't mind, I didn't really notice, even, until I started looking around and thinking that it would be her last year in the house, that she was going to die here... I wanted it to be bright and pretty for her. I got one of the guys from town to do it while she was in for her last set of radiation treatments.”

Louise had looked happily surprised at first, but then got agitated. Sally couldn't understand her, and reassured Louise that no it didn't cost too much, and yes it was nontoxic, and no Sally wasn't cleaning up the place in order to sell it, she'd done it for them to enjoy. Eventually Louise settled down.

“You think she was worried about wards,” Sam says. “Maybe she did put some up. But they got scraped off, or painted over.”

“I don’t know. I wouldn’t even know what they looked like.”

Sam gnaws on his lip. It doesn't quite feel right to him. “She'd just gotten out of an abusive marriage, and now her house is haunted – and she stays in the house?”

“Family home,” Dean reminds him. Sam acknowledges this with a tilt of his head. He understands the concept intellectually, but it's not one he has a strong emotional grasp on.

Then again, if something had been haunting the Impala, no way they would have just sold it and moved on to a newer, cleaner, less spiritually-involved car.

“Research?” Sam suggests.

Dean gives a put-upon groan, but nods agreement. He pushes his chair back and stands, sighing at Sally and Sam's concerned looks. “Will you stop? I'm good as new.” He rubs his left shoulder and grins. “Better, even. Let's go, Sammy.”

 

 

The library is much like any other small town library. Dust motes hang in the sunlight, slowly settling on the fading curtains and the elderly lady checking out a stack of Harlequin paperbacks. The records clerk is the gossipy type. By the time they've looked through newspapers, a couple of poorly written local books on the history of the area, land titles and burial records, they've heard about all fourteen of her grandchildren, her husband's bad hip, and her suspicions about the town dentist.

When Dean explains they're scouting locations for a TV documentary on legends and spirits, she looks disappointed she doesn't have more to tell them.

“Ghosts? There's supposed to be one at the cottage out behind the Methodist church. Round eighty years back, the sexton's daughter died from a fall down the stairs. Some people say she threw herself down them deliberately when she found out she was 'in trouble.'” She clucks her tongue. “I can't say as to that. She died, all right – that's recorded, and not as a suicide, she's buried in the church graveyard. But there's those who claim they've seen her standing in the garden of the place late in the evening, waiting for her suitor.”

Sam writes an imaginary line in his notebook. “We'll be sure to check it out. Anything else?”

“Any of the old farmhouses around here have any stories?” Dean prods. “We drove past a couple on our way here. There was one up on the hill just before the town limit – remember that one, Sam? You said it looked a little spooky.”

“The old Webster place?” She purses her lips. “Never heard tell of anything out there. Louise Webster used to come in here a lot, with that little girl of hers. She had troubles, did she ever, but they weren't from any ghost. No, she brought it all on herself when she took up with that no-good Paul. Why some women put up with men like that, I'll never know. He was bad news from the start. The temper on him! He'd be sweet as pie one minute, and then, bang, it was like a switch flipped and he'd lose his mind. Louise couldn't see it, though, and went and married him against all advice. Webster women always were contrary that way.”

She sighs, but her look is more smug than compassionate. “He wasn't so bad with her at first, until the little one was born. He couldn't stand that baby taking all her time and attention. I don't think he ever took it out on the girl, but he was some hard on Louise. She'd come in here by times, the girl trailing quiet as a mouse behind her, just to be someplace he was never likely to go. I could see the bruises on her from across the room.”

“And then he left them,” Sam says.

“Mmm hmmm,” she says. “Just up and disappeared one day. Nobody's heard a word of him since.”

“Disappeared,” Dean says thoughtfully. Sam knows they're thinking the same thing.

“We've taken up enough of your time,” he says politely. “Thank you for your help. We'll be sure to take a look at that cottage.”

They're both moving fast as they head out to the car, feeling that buzz of an answer. He grins at Dean as they climb in and slam the doors, forgetting his stupidity and the awkwardness between them, and there's a moment when Dean smiles right back, the way it used to be.

Then Dean has to go and say something. “Hey, uh, Sam.” He clears his throat. Sam can see his knuckles whitening on the wheel. “You know I'm not into talking about feelings, but I kinda need–”

“Don't,” Sam bites out. “Just, forget it.”

God damn it, Dean never knows when to stop. “Sam, I don't think – ”

“No.” Sam balls up his fists, presses one against his forehead. “Dean. Just drop it. _Please._ ”

Dean's jaw is set. “You don't know what – ”

Sam reaches over and turns the radio on, spinning the volume to max.

But it doesn't quite drown out the silence that rides with them, real as any vengeful ghost.

 

 

Sally comes to the door with a partly constructed – thing – pinned over her clothes and ushers them into the front room.

“Anything happen while we were gone?” Dean asks.

“No, it's been quiet. I've been working.”

She bites her lip thoughtfully. “You know, my studio usually feels safe. Nothing's happened in here. Yet, anyway.”

Sam catches Dean's eyes wandering to the bookshelf, and the little jar that holds what's left of Louise Webster, because he's looking at the same thing.

When this case is done, they're going to have to split up. He's going to go crazy otherwise. Or else Dean is going to keep digging until he uncovers the full horror, and there'll be nothing left but ashes.

“Have a seat,” she says, gesturing to a worn leather couch covered in brightly patterned cushions. She starts gingerly removing her creation. “Sorry, I just need to get this dress off before I sit down or I'll impale myself. How was the library? Did you find out anything?”

“Maybe,” Dean says. “We need to check a few things out. But I realized that this morning, we never asked about your dad.”

“My dad?” she says, puzzlement evident on her face. “What does he have to do with this?”

“Probably nothing,” Dean says, and you'd have to know him as well as Sam does to catch the lie. “We just want to get a little more history of the place.”

She shrugs. “He doesn't have much to do with the history. This was my mom's family's home. She had an older sister who moved out East and never came back. So the house was left to her – her parents both died when she was in her twenties.” A bitter smile touches her lips briefly. “Guess it's a family tradition.”

She finishes extracting herself from the half-made dress and sits in the chair by her sewing machine. “My dad would have lived here for about five years. I was still very young when he left. I honestly don't remember much about him. I have this one really clear, random memory of him in the bathroom shaving – he dabbed shaving cream on my nose and it tickled and I sneezed – isn't it funny, how you remember stupid little moments like that? And I remember Mom cried a lot back then. I didn't like that he made her cry.”

She fiddles with the pins scattered over the table, lining them up in straight rows as she talks.

“Then one day I came downstairs for breakfast, and Mom told me he'd left. I asked when he'd be back, and she told me he'd gone away for good. She hugged me and told me everything was going to be okay, we were going to be okay, it was a fresh start. We were going to live all by ourselves, just the two of us, and do whatever we felt like without anybody yelling at us, and paint the house whatever color we wanted to, and grow peaches in the back yard.

She was crying and I asked why she was sad when it all sounded so wonderful, and she said they were tears of happiness. She said they'd water the garden and it would grow beautiful flowers for us, because she was so happy. We planted the daisies out by the front steps that day. And the peach tree in the back yard.”

Sam blinks. An idea is creeping up on him.

“Lot of digging, to plant a tree,” Dean says, and Sam again feels the swift zing of pleasure he always gets when they're on the same wavelength.

“I don't remember doing much,” Sally says. “I think she'd already done that. I just remember going out to a nursery to buy the tree. And then it was my job to hold it straight while she shovelled in the dirt around it. There was a lot of dirt already dug up. Never did thrive though. This is actually the very first year it’s yielded any fruit at all.”

 

 

“So we're thinking Paul didn't take off.” At their motel, Dean kicks off his boots and heads over to flop down on the far bed. “Louise killed him that night, buried him, and put the tree on top of him in case anyone got curious as to why her backyard was dug up.”

Sam nods. “It fits. Do you think he was the one haunting her back then?”

“For sure.” Dean wriggles around, shoving the pillow under his head. “Sally was probably just too young to notice. Or maybe she blocked out the weird stuff.”

“Or maybe Paul didn't actually manifest?” Sam suggests. “Louise might have been worried about it. Maybe she put up wards against vengeful spirits to prevent him from coming back to haunt her.”

Dean shrugs. “Either way. ”

“She was pretty unhappy when we suggested Louise might be the spirit. She's really not going to like us if we suggest her mother murdered her father.”

“No need for suggesting anything.” Dean stretches, t-shirt riding up; Sam looks away. “I'm having a nap. We can do the digging after dark.”

“Are you saying we shouldn't tell her?”

“There are things people don't want to know,” Dean says firmly, and the irony is not lost on Sam.

“She's going to notice the ground's been disturbed,” Sam points out.

Dean shrugs. “Look, if we find what I'm thinking we're going to find, we salt and burn the bastard and afterwards we can tell her whatever the hell you want. Tell her there was an ancient curse. Or the area used to be a native burial ground. Or tell her we buried a protection charm there. Whatever. I just don't think we need to destroy her memory of her mother.”

His voice is strained near breaking. Sam shuts up. He's not about to contradict Dean on the topic of memories of a dead mother.

 

 

Sally's humming to herself as she puts water on to boil. She opens the pantry door and pulls a tin of spaghetti sauce from the nearest shelf, then catches sight of the row of jars along the far wall. Her gasp is drowned out by the crash as the tin of sauce hits the floor.

All the jam she made last week – the perfect, glowing gold – has turned rotten. Streaks of black mold thread through cloudy, brownish sludge.

 

 

They park the Impala at the end of the long drive, and wait until an hour after the last of the farmhouse lights have gone out.

Dean only tries to start a conversation twice before Sam pulls out his iPod and jams the earbuds in.

The moon is high by the time they head up the drive loaded with shovels, salt and kerosene. They give the house a wide berth and head into the back yard. Dark shadows stream from the tree across the silvered grass.

“Okay,” Dean says as they approach it. “If he was under a thin layer of dirt at the bottom of the hole, he might be only three or four feet down.” He stares at the ground and sighs. “But the roots are probably going to be a bitch. You start here, I'll take the far side.”

The ground isn't too bad – not much clay, and it hasn't rained lately. It's still tough going, and his muscles are burning after the first fruitless hour. Dean was right: their shovels keep hitting tough, thick roots, the impact ricocheting up to their shoulders. Twice Sam thinks he's struck paydirt, only to brush the soil away and discover it's yet another root, not a femur after all.

“Fuck,” Dean says succinctly, jamming his shovel into a pile of dirt and standing up to rub his neck. “Maybe we should steal a backhoe.”

Sam grunts, heaving up another shovelful. “I think she'd definitely notice that.”

“She's going to notice if we're still digging come morning.” Dean shines his flashlight into the hole by his feet and sighs. “I'm nearly five feet down here, and nothing but goddamn roots.”

Sam's about to agree, when his shovel hits something hard. It sends the familiar jolt up his arm, but the noise isn't the same. “Hang on. I might have something.”

He bends down to brush the earth away. The object under his fingers feels broader and smoother than a tree root. His palm slides around a curved surface. Dean comes up behind him, directing the flashlight beam over his shoulder.

Dirt-filled eye sockets stare back at him.

A crackle of static shivers the air. The flashlight beam swings wildly away. There's a thump and grunt as Dean hits the ground.

Sam stands and whirls, flailing the shovel at the spectre. It vanishes and reappears behind Dean, who's just gotten to his feet. “Dean! Look out!”

Dean ducks to the side without hesitating. The ghost's swing goes through the space where his head had been, but it immediately kicks Dean's feet out from under him.

Dean rolls, recovering from the fall, and fumbles in his pocket. “Sam! Get the kerosene!”

Sam vaults across the excavation and runs for the jerry can. As his fingers close on it, he feels the sudden chill behind him and spins, swinging the can at the figure materializing right in front of him. It passes through with no effect. A tremendous pressure slams into his chest and he's thrown backwards, hitting the ground hard enough that he sees stars and struggles to breathe.

The ghost abruptly dissolves as a shower of salt crystals falls through the space where it had been standing, and the pressure lessens. Sam turns to see Dean throwing another handful into the hole by the tree. “Quick!”

He staggers to his feet and joins Dean, pouring kerosene over the skull. The ghost is suddenly there again on the far side of the hole, its back against the tree. Dean drops in the match and the kerosene ignites.

The ghost vanishes with a wail and a shower of sparks.

The entire peach tree bursts into flames.

“Jesus Christ!” Dean yelps, leaping back. “The fuck?”

“His bones.” Sam backs up too, staring at the conflagration. Waves of heat beat against his face. “He's part of the tree. Or it's part of him.”

The fire is loud, flames roaring and branches crackling. Sam glances back at the house and sees the porch light come on.

“Shit,” he says. “We're about to have company.”

Dean sighs. “Yeah, well. It's not our most subtle job.”

A pyjama-clad Sally races down the steps and across the back yard.

“What the hell did you do?” She skids to a stop, glaring at them. “Our tree! I told you that was special to me!”

“It was special, all right,” Dean says. “I'm sorry, Sally, but we had to. Look.”

He gestures to the pit at his feet. She takes a step forward and looks down into the flames. Paul's skull looks back at her, blackened and cracked in half, but still recognizable.

“Who – who is that?” Her voice wavers.

Sam hesitates, trying to figure out how to break the news gently.

“Paul,” Dean says.

She stares at him blankly for a moment, then her eyes widen in realization. “Paul – my dad Paul?” One hand flies to her mouth. “But what – how did he...”

“It would have been self defence.”

Clouds are rolling in fast over the moon. It's hard to see the expression on her face, in the flickering shadows.

“No,” she says brokenly. “No,” and then she turns and runs. The farmhouse door slams behind her. The porch light goes out. No others come on.

“That could have gone worse,” Dean says. He starts to say something else, but it's drowned in a massive crack of thunder, and the skies open.

They're soaked within ten seconds.

“Okay,” Dean says. “That's worse.”

“At least the house isn't at risk. This'll put the fire out.” Sam hunches his shoulders but the rain is still running off the ends of his hair and down inside his shirt. “Maybe Louise is still protecting her daughter. I'm pretty sure rain wasn't in the forecast.”

They stand there in the rain, watching until the tree is gone and the job's done. Once you reach a certain level of wet, it doesn't get any worse.

“I guess I kind of get why she’s upset,” Dean says quietly. “We took her mom from her.”

“Her mom's dead,” Sam points out.

“But the kind of person she imagined that her mom was. That will always be different now. And it probably changes how she sees herself, too.”

Sam knows they’re not talking about Sally and her mother anymore. “You said it yourself. There are things people don't want to know.” He’s talking too fast, but he can't afford to have Dean say the words. Sam can leave, will leave. Dean will never have to deal with him again, Dean can even hate him. As long as Sam doesn't have to carry the memory of Dean saying the actual words, hear the disgust and rejection. “Don't make me talk about it. We can split up. You'll never have to wonder...”

“Will you fucking _shut up_ for once in your life,” Dean says fiercely. His eyes are wild in the firelight. “I know that. That's why I – ” He stops and takes a deep breath, balling his hands into fists. Sam braces for an attack.

“That's why I never told you. I should have been the one to leave. But I couldn't. I wasn't strong enough.”

His voice is almost inaudible over the crackle of the flames and the hiss of evaporating rain.

“I thought – I thought it was just me.”

Sam stares.

Dean's shirt is ripped and he's smeared with mud. His hair is flat with water. There's a bruise darkening along his jaw. He looks broken and open and vulnerable in a way Sam hasn't seen in a very long time.

His expression is equal parts freaked and scared, and a little bit of hopeful too, and it's that last that gives Sam the courage to lean in.

He stops, unable to bridge the final inch. He can't take that chance, do something else irreversible. He must be wrong, must be reading what he wants into Dean's words. Dean can't possibly...

Dean's lips touch his, cold and wet and hesitant.

Sam goes up in flames faster than the peach tree.

He can't help the groan that escapes him. He crowds in, chasing the kiss, thrilled and disbelieving as he feels Dean pressing right back.

They break apart and the glitter in Dean's eye is more than firelight.

“Later,” he says.

Sam glances back at the house. It's all that's keeping him from wrapping Dean up in his arms and kissing him until neither of them can breathe.

“I'll hold you to that,” Sam says. “No running away.”

“No killing and burying in the back yard either,” Dean says, and kicks at the wet ashes. The rain is thinning. It's already dawn, the sky brightening despite the clouds.

As they drive away, the wet pavement reflects the silver of the sky. It's as if they're heading directly into the light.

 

 

 

Art post is [here](http://winchestergirl.livejournal.com/273167.html) \- go give her some love!  



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